


Pining

by shibarifan01



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M, h/c pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 10:42:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shibarifan01/pseuds/shibarifan01
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold bandages John and comes to a realization</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pining

**Author's Note:**

> Tried writing a first-person text from Harold’s POV – much pining, not much smutting, lots of h/c

 

I can hear him coming up the stairs before he turns the corner and walks down the aisle of the library, his tread uneven, appearing to favour his right side, the arm folded at the waist. His too handsome face bears a dark frown and his “I’m here, Finch” is more a growl than a statement. Bear wants to run to him but a curt command returns him to his bed from where he watches John, I would say like a hawk, but probably more like a protective wolf.

John does not stop at the desk but makes his way to the back room where we keep the medical supplies and I hear him hissing and barely holding back from swearing. “Are you OK, Mr. Reese?” I can’t help myself from voicing, not at all helpful, and so I extricate myself from my chair and go to see if I can help.

By the time I’m standing next to him, he’s removed his jacket and I see that his shirt, damp with blood, is stuck to his stomach and his back. He tries mightily to undo the buttons by himself, with one hand, and levels a dark stare at me, daring me to say anything. But I’ve never been one to hold my tongue so I say “Again, Mr. Reese, I swear you have a death wish! Let me see that, now,” batting away at his hand, slick with blood and trembling slightly.  He is not gracious about it, but he moves his arm back a bit so I can work at the buttons.

“Well, Finch, all in a day’s work… if you did not send me running after guys with knives…”

“Let’s see what you’ve managed to get yourself into this time…” I cut him off. I don’t want him to remind me that it is partly – maybe even entirely – my doing, my fault that gets him hurt repeatedly. I know we have to put ourselves in danger to save the numbers, and I know, as I have told him repeatedly, that we will probably die doing so, but I fervently wish I did not have to come face to face with my handiwork so often, and the least I can do is try to repair some of the damage I cause.

Once the shirt is unbuttoned, I pull it off from his pants after having undone his belt. Oh, that this simple gesture should be fraught with so much intimacy. I feel my heart trip and I pretend to be concentrating on my work so I don’t have to look up at him. I pull gingerly at the material which has started to stick to the wound and he winces but says “Come on, Finch, pull a bit more and take it off.” So that is what I do, balling the shirt once I’ve removed it and throwing it in the plastic garbage bin we keep for just such circumstances. It’s lined with a plastic bag that we can then just remove and throw out with the garbage. If anyone had told me that I would one day have to keep a garbage pail for bloody clothes and bandages in my place of work, I would have sent them directly to Bellevue.

I bend down to examine the wound and the sickly sweet stench of the blood almost does me in. I have never been able to stomach that odor which brings back too many memories of my own first-hand acquaintance with blood, and wounds, and pain. The gash though nasty and long, is very shallow, which is probably why it bled so much.  I direct John to sit on the medical stool we keep there for such purposes, and I have him lift his right arm and put his hand behind his head so I can work unhindered.

He does not know what this does to me, to see him bloody again. And he does not know what it does to me to see him naked. His powerful, hairless chest, the dark brown pebbly nipples standing proudly, the flat stomach, the strong column of his neck, the line of his jaw where a dark stubble darkens the skin. I want to gnaw at the juncture of his jaw and the lobe of his ear and rub my cheek against his, where the burn of the beard will make me wince. I want to… But I bring myself back to the task at hand with barely a sigh which John mistakes for a sound of reproof. He looks at me and is about to say something so I beat him to it. “Well, Mr. Reese, as you’d say yourself, barely a scratch.  As you can see, I’ve learned from the best! You’ll be fit as new in two shakes of a lamb’s tail” I tell him. He appears somewhat surprised but at this point, breezy indifference is my best exit strategy.

“Two shakes of a lamb’s tail Finch? Where did you get that one?” he asks, smiling slightly. “Well, Mr. Reese, my _grand-maman_ used to say it all the time when I skinned my knees!”

“I’ve always imagined you more as a book-reader, Finch. I can see a little Finch hiding from his _grand-maman_ to read a pile of books while hiding in the attic and eating jujubes…” It’s my turn to level a dark stare at him. “Jujubes, Mr. Reese? Really? Not nearly fancy enough for little Finch! Truffles maybe…” I add, letting myself smile at him.

The moment passes and I am back at the task at hand. I fetch a basin of warm water, a cloth and a towel, bandages, disinfectant and ointment.  I clean the wound, which makes him catch his breath… which makes me catch MY breath. I pat down his skin around the wound which covers at least eight inches back to front at the height of his pectoral muscle. “Do not move your arm Mr. Reese, it’s going to sting,” I tell him as I spray the solution on the gash. “Shit!!!!” is all he says, adding “Sorry Finch, I’m not usually that much of a wuss. Somehow it hurts less when I do it because I know what’s coming.”

“Well, Mr. Reese, in this case, you wouldn’t be able to, so you’ll have to grin and bear it.” I really do indifferent very well. He gives me a sideways glance and immediately returns his stare to the wall in front of him.

I bandage the wound, being careful to affix the bandage with the tapes without touching the nipple over which my hand hovers constantly. My fingers want to brush against it gently before pulling at it and rolling it between my thumb and forefinger; my tongue wants to join in, and I want to hear him hiss under his breath but with pleasure rather than with pain. I swallow painfully and say “Just one more minute or so and you’ll be good to go.”

I now have to wash the blood on the inside of his arm where it brushed against the wound. The blood has caked there and has dripped all the way down to his underarm so I rinse and wring the cloth and start washing him. I also notice a small cut which will need some antiseptic ointment but not really a bandage. I start by washing the spot between his elbow and his underarm, where the skin is ever so white compared to the rest of him, and the blue veins make a delicate web that I want to trace with my lips, following each one and kissing their juncture points.

Standing above him, I can smell his sweat as I bring the cloth in the dark forest of his armpit and suddenly all I want to do is bury my nose there, in the torrid heat and gorge on his smell. I want him to bring his arm down over my head and hold me there forever. And I stand there, running my hand down over and over the same spot, hypnotized by that deep want within me. I realize that I am hard as a rock and that my groin is barely a few inches from his eyes. I fervently hope that he does not turn his head but I am paralyzed and unable to do anything else but run my hand from which the cloth has dropped, again and again against the hair of his armpit.

“Finch! Finch! Are you zoning out on me?”

And I’m brought back to earth, blinking, lost, bereft. “I’m sorry Mr. Reese, I was woolgathering I guess.”

“You looked completely gone, Finch. Are you sure you’re OK? I should have gone to see Dr. Tillman. You shouldn’t have to do this for me…”

“Mr. Reese! I’m the one who sends you to face those criminal elements, the least I can do is patch you up. I just did not sleep well for the past few nights and that’s probably why I’m not my usual perky self. Here, all I have to do now is put a smudge of ointment on that small cut on the inside of your bicep and give you a new shirt and we’ll be done for the day.”

I pull his arm again back behind his head and taking a bit of ointment on my index finger, I run it gently along the small cut. Maybe it’s because I do it too lightly, or maybe because my pinky lightly brushes against his nipple, but I hear him make a small breathless moan in the back of his throat and I freeze. I realize that I am caught there, on the cusp of wanting to take the plunge and of wishing to retract back to the safety of my frosty politeness. I feel the tension in his arm, I see the goosebumps on the skin of his underarm, the tightness of the dark nipple and my hand closes around his bicep, runs down it gently until it rests against his stubbly cheek. I look into his eyes as he lifts his to meet mine. And we both freeze an instant too long, and the moment passes.

I turn around, my heart in my throat. My eyes sting and I am so angry at my cowardice that when I hand him his shirt, I can barely bring myself to say a cold “Here Mr. Reese. And make sure you call Carlini the tailor to have him make you another suit.”

I exit the room, my footsteps ringing even more unevenly than usual on the cold stone floor. I sit at my desk and put my head in my hands, breathing slowly to regain my composure.

I do not turn when he exits the room and leaves the library, but I feel his hand ghost softly against my shoulder as he goes. And I know I have to be content with what I have. I do not know how, or even if, he would accept what I am so willing to give him. And I tell myself that maybe one day I will find the courage, before it is too late, to venture down that road with him.


End file.
